


Discordant scales

by vanishing_apples



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Merfolk AU, Romantic Fluff, no one? ok, who else wants fish grimnir
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-09-24 05:37:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20353264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishing_apples/pseuds/vanishing_apples
Summary: Shiva, a renowned but disenchanted composer, returns to his hometown with hopes of regaining his creative drive. He finds more than he has bargained for.





	1. Chapter 1

He shouldn’t be able to see the audience, not from up here. The stage lights are much too harsh, glaring down with a thousand suns’ intensity, effectively blinding them to any object beyond the light. And yet, he feels them all the same - the cold stares of innumerable eyes. They stalk, quietly, civilly. No less hungrily, from the security of darkness. Like predators.

Shiva’s fingers glide across the keys with mechanical precision. _Lento, adagio, allegretto_. Does it matter? He plays it all the same, even if any average listener would beg to differ. They would weep at the _emotion_, gush praise at his delivery, claim deep empathy with his alleged self-expression; that they understand something in the piece that simply, objectively, isn’t there. They would invariably miss the most deep-seated frustration in his music of all: The fact that it has stopped feeling like his own for a long time. 

But again, that hardly matters. Tonight, Shiva isn’t the primary object of the audience’s unsettling focus. Europa is. Lovely, prodigious Europa, with her angelic voice well renowned, is the star. Her voice is the only thing making this night bearable: so expressive, so impeccable in technique, hitting every note as he intended they are to be hit. He cannot be more pleased with her performance, and neither are the raptorial masses. He made this aria for her, after all. 

This concert is bound to be a success thanks to Europa’s effort alone. Or at least, it should be. It would be, were Shiva’s worst nightmares not bound to so swiftly come true. 

His fingers stop. Suddenly. With pages of the score still unplayed and on an oddly discordant chord. The piano’s abrupt silence sucks warmth out of the concert hall.

\---

His hometown cradles music.

He can’t remember first paying attention to any of the place’s countless nursery songs. They must have been sewn to the fabric of his consciousness since as early as birth. He grew up moulded by their melodies. Just shy of emerging from toddlerhood, he began to play them.

The strings of his still living father’s fiddle were sharp, a little too hard on his small fingers. He fell in love with an old carpenter’s guitar playing, but the guitar’s strings, too, would bite and chafe him. Shiva still remembers the young village girl who gave him his first harmonica - the kindly daughter of the local shopkeeper. She heaped praise after praise on his clumsy playing, wiped his spit from the harmonica’s holes, and taught him his first songs. By that time, he was already breathing music.

Every townsperson is a musician, a composer, or an instrument craftsman. They live surrounded by nature’s bountiful sounds. They have flutes that mimic the gurgling springs, percussions that emulate the leaves’ chatters, songs that tell of fantastical tales set in the natural world. Of course, the folklore is as rich as the music through which it is told.

There live aquatic sirens which haunt springs, creaks and the town’s coastal waters. These creatures possess voices so bewitching, so utterly, unimaginably beautiful, the music they weave cannot be replicated by any human means. Their songs, however, would lure any hapless listener to an early grave. Unexplained disappearance within the town have long been attributed to the works of the sirens. These pour souls - who had unwittingly captured the aquatic beasts’ fancy with their talent, intellect, or any other larger than life quality - were all charmed by the melodious bait, led to grisly ends.

Shiva wonders what sort of sound his ancestors encountered to have concocted such a grim tale. Had it been as heavenly as claimed, would the story not have taken on a more positive nature? If all who hears it does not live to tell the tale, then who began telling it in the first place? Surely, the macabre details were added purely for drama’s sake. If so, he would love to be subjected to such a potent source of inspiration himself. Maybe it takes a siren to drag him out of this ennui.

“I do think a long trip back home would do you good, Shiva.” - Europa smiles from across the tea table, absentmindedly nipping a tiny bit off her scone, her gaze far into the ruffling waters.

“Indeed.” - Shiva says.

Pink and white azaleas crowd together tightly on their shrubberies, so numerous their brilliant, bedewed faces conceal what few leaves still remain. A patch of bluebells softly sway, sprinkling a deep earthy scent into the winds which rouse them. He half expects to hear crystalline tinkling when they move.

Europa’s garden is lively with spring, yet serenely quiet. The sea inches just close enough to be a spectacle, but not so close that the waves’ restless murmurs can reach their ears.

His heart sinks, recognising himself to be more appreciative of this silence than his own music.

“...Europa.” - Shiva starts a little uneasily. Guiltily.

Europa shakes her head. She looks a bit like her delicate bluebells.

“Pardon me, but I’ve had enough apologies.” - She says, her gentle tone betraying the subtle frustration in her words. - “I believe I have made the fact that all is forgiven very clear. My only concern now is that you receive the remedy you need.”

Only Europa is so immensely tolerant, so endlessly graceful. The concert did not end in infamy all because her steely composure prevented it. That aria has been critiqued as one so avant-garde, it allows the songstress to sing _a capella_ for the entire last half. It is lauded as a great technical piece, successfully performed only by the most gifted, expressive voices. Shiva could almost laugh at the ludicrosity of it all. That being said, he is eternally grateful towards Europa for such an outcome.

“Allow me to thank you again, then.” - He says.

She sighs, but her cheeks grow plump and slightly pink with a warm smile. 

“You are welcome. Though I would much rather you come back at peace with yourself as thanks.”

“...You know I can’t promise that.” - He frowns.

“Oh, I don’t mean to pressure you. But I do wish you would grow to be less self-critical after some vacationing.”

“I shall put in some mighty effort, then.”

They laugh behind wisps of aromatic tea. Shiva perceives a hint of oceanic salt in the vapour. The tide is rising close. He should be leaving. 

“...I will see you soon, Europa. And thank you for the tea.”

Europa allows her hand to be kissed.

“The pleasure was all mine.”

\---

It’s just as he remembers it, mostly. The hills’ gentle inclines, the green carpeted meadows dappled with flora, the odd cemetery whose domed headstones line up like the fingernails of buried giants. The century old willow tree beckons the train’s approach with its outstretched, waving branches, tempting Shiva to look out of his cabin and be greeted by the horizon dotted by familiar roofs. So he does. And as he breaches the opened window’s frame, his eyes finally lay on the differences that have manifested in his absence.

Factories. Cloud piercing chimneys breathe slanted columns of smoke into the sky. There are not many of them yet, but the presence of a mere few taints the atmosphere with an impersonal alienness. 

The air he inhales suddenly tastes different. Soon, so do the land’s sounds crawling into his ears. They, too, take on a flavour of dissonance. The stream’s sparkling gurgles, though still predominant, must now compete with the clanking and thumping of machinery. 

The fire engine sighs the journey’s final puff of steam. Michael’s gladdened visage welcomes him on the platform. He can’t quite tell if the hard lines on her face are from stiff from worry, or he has erroneously remembered them to be softer. His aunt seems old for her age while paradoxically looking as if she hasn’t aged in years. 

“Welcome back. The trip went well, I hope?” - She asks rhetorically while helping him with luggage.

“Yes, excellently.” - He gives her the stock answer. - “You’ve been well, too? I do apologise for never writing enough to receive frequent updates.”

They go from inconsequential small talk to the state of the town, within the span of Shiva’s luggage being pulled out of the station and hauled onto the waiting carriage. He learns that the gray footsteps of industry have not at all long ago been upon them, that the brand new train which carried him is a result of the process. Michael thinks it brings much good, for now at least. More efficiency, less time wasted on transportation are nothing short of welcome miracles. 

The bellow of some distant steam whistle crudely chops short short their conversation like a blunt reminder. They both wince from the dreadful noise.

“...Of course, everything has its downside. The sound pollution isn’t so bad, yet. But it’s a shame that the very essence of our town - its harmonic products - have to fight the byproduct of its progress. You can hardly sit or stand through a street performance without some noise from the factories interrupting.”

“Does the problem keep you from peaceful sleep at night?” - Shiva asks, just short of cringing from another screech. 

“Oh, not at all, actually. Even factories workers sleep at night, you know.”

Music and rhythmic clapping enter their carriage as it rolls through the buzzing town square. Shiva catches a glimpse of familiar fiery red. Alexiel winks at him from the crowd’s center, still dancing to her own ocarina before he even fully recognises her. Shiva is unsure if she can even see his wave before the masses of people swallow her up again. The deed alone makes his heart feel oddly light.

Michael smiles at the first sign of her nephew’s relaxation.

“Well. You’ll find out in time just how much we have all changed for yourself, and be replenished all the while.”

“I hope that to be the case as well.” - He says.

\---

It is not immediately the case. In spite of his aunt’s hospitality, in spite of her reserving for him the most remote room in the house with windows facing the beach instead of over well-frequented paths, Shiva spends his first night home sleepless.

He thought Michael said that factories weren’t run at night. Well, assuming the sounds grating on him are from the factories. They are terribly reminiscent of the abominable steam whistles, except much quieter, more inhumanly high-pitched, more sporadic. Such qualities only make them more excruciating to withstand, like pins needling at, plucking on taut nerves.

Shiva briefly wonders if he is indeed losing his mind. Maybe a simple getaway won’t be enough. He’s psychologically damaged, somehow, and the sounds are in fact coming from within his own head. It would make sense, given how persistent this creative apathy of his has been. He can’t even remember a time when he considered making music a genuine joy...

Realising that inactivity is leading him towards an insidious spiral of catastrophisation, Shiva pulls himself out of bed. 

The ocean’s whispers are fresh balm on his inflamed nerves, so are their languid lapping at his ankles. Moonlight from a cloudless sky crown the water’s ripples with silver. Between the waves’ breaths and the salty wind whirring over his ears, Shiva’s thoughts of calamity die down to a near imperceptible buzz. In a precious, fragile second of momentary peace, he contemplates sitting down on the shore and let the tides bury his feet. Just then he hears it again: the insufferable hisses of an unseen whistle. 

They’re different, louder this time, with a definite, external source. They’re irritating for sure, but Shiva is at least relieved this proves he has not gone insane. It punctures the night’s sacred tranquility, sticking out so grotesquely it gives him no trouble locating its source. 

As abruptly as it manifested, the noises stop. Shiva thinks he hears an exceptionally large wave hitting some rocks nestled against the side of an inlet. Some strange urgency begs his steps, a curious fear that whatever he searches might slip away if he does not hurry. But before Shiva can make any discoveries, he finds himself discovered. 

Framed by drenched silvery locks, mismatched orbs of red and blue stare straight at him from atop the rocks, either oblivious or uncaring that their gaze is being returned. Shiva soon recognises the first to be the case. Immediately upon noticing his attention, his curious observer slides back into the water with a mighty splash, presumably from fright. 

Shiva rushes unthinkingly to the impact sight, out of an instinctive desire to assist a fellow human in need, perhaps. What he does not expect, however, is that the recipient of his help is anything but human. Chromatic scales shimmer pink and emerald green under the shallow water’s skin. The young man… young humanoid over whose lower half they neatly shingle lets out little wheezes from the unmistakable gills on his neck. The sounds are exact, if not minimised copies of the dreadful whistles.

“...You…” - Shiva starts, only just realising his mouth to have gracelessly fallen open.

The siren shrinks under his gaze but does not flee. Maybe he can’t. The water is so shallow his scales are exposed, after all. The foolish creature, out of pure curiosity or some other incomprehensible motive, has probably beached himself.

“Were you crying out for help?” - Shiva asks.

The siren shakes his head. So he hasn’t beached himself. True. His arms do seem capable of pulling himself back into the water enough. But then, why the noises?

“...Were you… singing, then?”

A meek nod.

Shiva’s shoulders slump with a sigh. They say the moonlight can drive people mad. He certainly feels a little mad. The mystique surrounding sirens have all but evaporated from his mind in an instance.

“Well, you’re quite the spectacular disaster at it.”


	2. Chapter 2

In a matter of seconds, Grimnir turns from fearful to offended. 

He never meant to sound bad. He has not even an inkling of what constitutes sounding “bad” to this stranger’s kind. Are not all sounds from the land supposed to be beautiful? They’ve always seemed so to him. He merely wanted to learn from what he has heard the most often, most clearly from the land dwellers’ world. Embarrassing himself in front of one exceedingly rude terrestrial biped was the last thing on his mind.

A sullen tail fin flicks water into the air.

“Woah, there!” - Shiva hops away from the first spray, only to immediately falls victim to a second one.

Grimnir splashes around more. His annoyance gradually dissolves owing to the little tantrum, replaced by a juvenile delight at the sight of Shiva trying to dodge his assault. The fun stops just before he could get completely carried away, however.

The rude stranger, in complete disregard for his own soaked clothing, has entered the water to grab him firmly by two full cheeks. Too startled for a proper attack, the water loaded up inside them spills out of his lips in a limp, pathetic stream.

“Fine, I get it. I apologise for insulting your singing.” - Shiva says, heaving slightly.

The siren wriggles out of his grasp with a satisfied huff, then, with remarkable dexterity, pulls himself up a large rock. Grimnir perches there, looking quite proud of his victory as he stares down at Shiva who’s now busy wringing water out of his long hair.

“...That said, would you mind explaining… er… why you sound like that?” 

A blank look settles on Grimnir’s face. Then his lips part. The awful whistle noise resumes.

“Alright! You don’t have to explain yourself.” - Shiva waves frantically at him from the ground. - “I understand. You don’t speak our tongue.”

It somehow feels worse to see the corners of the siren’s mouth sagging in dejection than him throwing a fit. Grimnir seems to get the point himself. He can punish Shiva for having no filters, but making him enjoy his “singing” is quite unreasonable. Perhaps he _can_ provide the land dweller with an explanation without having to speak.

Grimnir pats the vacant dry spot right next to him on the rock.

A line forms between Shiva’s eyebrows.

“You want me… there?”

The siren nods, grinning from ear to ear.

“To wait for something?”

A more decisive, enthusiastic nod.

Shiva can’t deduce what plans this aquatic creature can possibly have for him. At least he senses that they involve no danger. Grimnir seems free of ill intent. Likewise, Shiva is positive no steam whistle noise can lure him into a deadly trance. With some difficulty, due to his size relative to the siren and how slippery the rocks are, Shiva drags himself onto the dry spot. 

He can see a string of gold unspooling across the horizon. A little farther inland, perched on a precipice, Michael’s home sits nestled among greenery. The sea-facing window of his room traps some of the day’s first blushing clouds in its gilded frame. The ocean’s fabric looks more textured under dawn’s light. 

It’s hard, fighting against his eyes’ inclination to linger on the siren’s scales. They reflect light in the most peculiar way. At one angle, the entire tail appears a matte, deep emerald. But the slightest of movement from their master causes them to shimmer and shift into a colour closer to the new clouds overhead. They also look metallic. He wonders if they also feel like metal to the touch.

A chilled fingertip pressed into his cheek pulls Shiva out of his musings. Turning towards the siren, he sees him pointing excitedly towards the tall chimneys of the town’s factories. So he wants to introduce to him his teachers.

“I see… You really were mimicking the steam whistles, then.”

_He’s missing half the point._

Grimnir’s forehead meets his palm in exasperation. Well, no matter. He can demonstrate soon enough. 

The first bellow violates the morning’s stillness. Then another, and another, clamouring with all the grace of a herd of noisy, drunken oxen. 

Shiva sucks in a shallow breath. So the factories wake with the sun. 

Just when he thinks he has heard enough, a higher, quieter screech joins them, at the perfect frequency for a harmony of thirds. 

Grimnir is _harmonising_. He seems to be having the time of his life, too. The siren _does_ intuitively understand and appreciate the language of music, after all. 

Unthinkingly, Shiva pulls his old harmonica out of his pocket. With this knowledge, he can’t bear to let this creature waste his potential on such an erroneous source of instruction.

Grimnir stops upon the harmonica’s first clear note. It is the same frequency of the factory whistles, but brighter, clearer, more melodic. His eyes grow wide with fascination. 

Pleased to see his success in capturing the siren’s attention, Shiva switches to a different note, then the next one. He slowly plays along the entire scale and backwards, determined to show Grimnir the variety, the possibility of music making. He half expects Grimnir to mimic him, but the siren instead begins to harmonise again, with him this time, but nonetheless in that dreadful steam whistle timbre. 

It’s not as bad, Shiva finds. He has grown somewhat used to the noise and no longer feels in need of sleep. Grimnir seems to be experimenting with the sounds he can make, thus more careful, more discreet with his volume, like a child pushing his first piano keys, fearful of mistakes. It’s endearing in a way. Those intent eyes almost make Shiva feel like tutoring his young pupils again. 

So taken are they both in the mock lesson that Shiva never realises when the whistles have stopped. Nor does he notice the tip of his nose suddenly close enough to touch that of the siren. Alarmed, his weight shifts, the leaning creature tipping them both over the rocks in his zealousness. 

They are fortunate the bed of sand below cushions their, more precisely Shiva’s, fall. Up close and with light streaming from his back, Grimnir’s already handsome visage takes on an ethereal quality which makes him truly fit for a creature of mythology. And that face only inches close to Shiva’s, as if the fall has not at all just taken place. 

“Hey, what are you…” - He asks, amidst spitting out sand and salty water.

Those eyes are deep, large and inquisitive, indeed. It’s almost too tempting to wipe away the stray lock of silver hair clinging to that wet cheek. It looks soft.

Maybe this is the part where his soul is sucked out and his body dragged under.

“...Hey.”

The harmonica is snatched from his hands. All too pleased with the spoils, Grimnir brings it to his own mouth, almost biting into it when he blows all the air his lungs hold into several holes at once. 

The ensuing noise, coupled with the abuse his childhood relic is receiving, not only alarms but enrages Shiva.

“Return that this instance!!”

He immediately regrets raising his voice. The last expression of the siren that he sees is one of utter fright. That face then disappears into the water, followed by a curve of chromatic scales ended by iridescent tail fin. His harmonica goes with them. Maybe this is how sirens really lure their victims into the deadly waters: by theft.


	3. Chapter 3

“‘What do fish eat’? What kind of a roundabout question is that?” - Alexiel huffs, then takes another large bite of her apple. - “What _kind_ of fish? Why do you ask, anyway? Seems like an odd concern to directly follow your informing me of losing my harmonica.”

Shiva closes his eyes.

“Did you not already relinquish it to me? And those are quite the amount of questions to my inquiry.”

“And that is no response either.” - Alexiel casually bites back, licking the juice off her fingers. - “I thought I deserved some context to this, at least. After all, you _did_ lose my harmonica.”

“_My_ harmonica.”

“Yes, yes.” - She waves dismissively. 

The first streams of people pool out of stores into the dusty streets. Lunch break approaches, but the midday sun’s glare does little to deter the town’s inhabitants from partaking in their daily joy of street performances. Alexiel tosses the apple core into a bin and dusts off her skirt standing up, eager to join the crowd with her ocarina. 

Shiva belatedly registers his own fingers hooked around her wrist.

“Pardon me.” - He hastily precedes. - “...But your counsel?”

This is ridiculous. He feels like a child again, like the sheltered boy who used to chase after her skirt hem dragging in the dirt. All this unwanted reminiscence just because of one insolent siren.

“Then context?” - Alexiel raises an eyebrow. She pretends to still be upset over the harmonica, out of a belief that his thick-headed assumption otherwise would help coax out whatever issues he’s bottling up more easily. 

She isn’t entirely wrong. Making himself look deranged maybe among the last of Shiva’s wishes, but backed into a corner, he will be hard pressed to find any way of wording his circumstances completely free from fantastical insanity.

“I need to lure out the fish…” - His voice tapers into mumbling. - “...the siren that took my harmonica.”

Alexiel blinks one, then twice. Shiva seems more incredulous of what just came out of his own mouth than she is. The townspeople have finished packing themselves densely into a ring at the square. Alexiel doesn’t budge from her spot.

“You want to lure… a siren.” - Her eyes narrow, the last word rolling off her tongue in odd, distinct syllables.

“Yes.” - Shiva kneads his temple.

“...Shiva.”

“I know what you’re thinking, alright? Yes, it sounds crazy, but that is nonetheless my reality, and if you won’t take it then-”

“I was merely about to say ‘Shouldn’t it be the other way around?’. You know, since sirens are known to _lure_ people.”

“...Excuse me?” 

Shiva’s incredulity turns from himself to Alexiel. She merely shrugs, wholly unfazed.

“And you do have the prodigious talent for composing. It’d make sense if you unwittingly attracted one, somehow.”

“...You don’t think I’m insane?”

“I think you are unwell, but not insane.” - She bites her lip. - “Unfortunately, I can’t help you in the matters of siren bait. We don’t have any lore regarding that, if my memory serves. People just assume their mythical creatures don’t eat, you know.”

Of course this would be her reaction. Alexiel may be curt and has the dryness in delivery of Michael’s infamous tea biscuits, but she is nowhere near as tightly bound by rationality as Shiva. It was _her_ who fed him the whole mythology in the first place. After all these years, she has retained the same freedom of spirit, through and through.

“Well, I guess it can’t be helped.” - Shiva says, already scrambling for an alternative plan in his head.

“Try chum, maybe. Uriel can hook you up with the fishermen.”

He’s not at all confident in the effectiveness of fish bait, especially on a being so… human in constitution, but thanks her nonetheless.

\---

Michael must have thought herself contributing to some odd therapy when she packed her nephew an entire picnic’s worth of food, even odder in his decision to have said picnic at the unholiest hours of night.

Shiva wonders if he should have got all this food and the chum bucket on a boat, or brought a fishing rod, for that matter. Out of pragmatism and a lack of knowledge, he has armed himself with all manners of things he can imagine a siren would eat. But now that he is actually back on the beach of the same inlet, ready to encounter any brazen aquatic cryptid that dares to emerge, throwing human food into the ocean just seems a counterproductive act of vandalism.

A fish head disappears into the moonlit waters, leaving fleeting concentric wrinkles in its wake. Nothing. No sounds other than that of the briny winds, murmuring sea, and the soft rustles of shifting sand under the tide. Not a faint semblance of a steam whistle to be heard. 

This idea is rather ill-conceived, now that he thinks about it. Why would any sea carnivore, assuming sirens are carnivores, choose chopped fish carcass tossed close to shore for a meal over, say, a school of fresh, live sardines? Chum works for things that can be caught on rods. Shiva doesn’t own a rod. At the moment, he’s no longer even certain his experience last night was anything more than a lucid dream. Maybe he simply dropped the harmonica into the water while on a walk, and was so agitated that his mind conjured up an excuse embezzled with fictitious elements. 

Guilt and fatigue beckon unrestful sleep. Shiva dozes off next to the untouched food, uncaring of the rising tide, half-heartedly hoping it would carry him away from shore. The sudden cool spray from the sea almost convinces him of the reality. His eyes stay close, anticipating another, larger splash as he is engulfed by the waves. 

It comes, perplexingly later, more diminutive than the first. It entails no closing tides. 

Something is off. This isn’t how the sea works, to his knowledge. The sea does not make unceremonious chewing noises… 

Shiva bolts upright. A steam whistle-like shriek follows. One unmistakeable, brilliant tail fin shimmers under the moon, the rest of the siren having ducked behind the basket.

_If I can’t see him, he can’t see me._ \- The creature seems to assume. 

He’s half-tempted to drag Grimnir out by the tail, but deduces that it would only frighten the siren, giving him reason to retreat back into the waters, and that the scale-clad object would be too slippery for the task. Besides, it _is_ poor etiquette.

Shiva gingerly pulls a self-heating soup can out of the basket and activates it. As it cooks, he can still hear the siren munching on an unfinished bite inches away. He stifles a laugh. The smell of hot chicken broth overwhelms that of the salty wind in their immediate vicinity. Shiva frees a spoon from a rolled napkin and calmly, begins eating. 

Being ignored only further convinces the siren of his self-perceived invisibility. Soon enough, Grimnir emerges sniffing, traces of a pillaged cut of ham still smeared around his mouth. 

As much as he would love to see this aquatic cryptid grapple (or struggle) with the concept of heated food, Shiva would rather not have him hurt himself. The can is pulled out of webbed fingers’ grasp. 

A whistle-like whine ensues. God save Shiva, he actually finds the noise cute.

“How about returning my harmonica first?”

Grimnir tilts his head quizzically. As if failing to understand the question licenses him to simply ignore it, he reaches for the soup again. 

Fueled by what can only be called juvenile spite, Shiva stands up. The advantage of having legs enables him to rob Grimnir of all chances. The siren flops helplessly at his feet. Not even the globs of sand catapulted by Grimnir’s tail can reach him at this height. Chuckles flow freely out of Shiva.

“As I said, return my harmonica, then you can have all the soup you want. Does that not sound like a fair bargain?”

_This is pure injustice._ As if spending his life envying his kind weren’t enough, this land dweller in particular has to rub his lack of legs in his face. Grimnir tries desperately to argue back, but his voice leaves him in the same incomprehensible, ghastly wheezes. For one who doesn’t understand the concepts of borrowing and returning, he can see no wrong he has done unto this man. Promising him delectable sustenance (though technically, Shiva hasn’t promised anything), only to deprive him of it: Is that not unspeakable cruelty?

For possibly the very first time in his life, Grimnir’s eyes sting with heat. Due to his overall wetness Shiva can’t immediately tell. Once he does, however, the effects are astounding.

“...Are you, perhaps, crying…?”

Grimnir’s face scrunching up confirms the fact. In his chagrin, the siren seems to have completely forgotten the plethora of other foods still right in his reach. The senseless little fit is still enough to send Shiva panicking.

“Come, now. A can of soup is no cause to cry over, please…”

_I’m not crying, whatever that is._ Grimnir chokes out short, staccatic whistle noises as his face further contorts. 

Before he knows it, Shiva is on his knees feeding an irate siren soup, blowing each spoonful down to edible temperature with care. The more Grimnir calms down thanks to the act, the more asinine Shiva finds himself. This is a just price to pay for upsetting a mythical being, the latter forces himself to believe.

“Have you never been taught not to throw tantrums in the ways of getting what you want?” - Shiva sighs, having already moved on to breaking off small pieces of bread to feed Grimnir. He seems to have forgotten that the siren has fingers himself. 

Grimnir shakes his head, chewing through lingering sniffles. No one has ever taught him anything. His kind is born and brought up by nature’s cradle in batches. All that he currently knows, he learned in solitude, guided by the impersonal teachings of nature and his own inherited compulsions. Not that this complete stranger to their ways can sympathise, not when he can’t even communicate his circumstances.

But even with the lack of mutual communication, Shiva recognises the siren’s soured mood. The knowledge of having possibly further injured disturbs him.

“...I’m sorry. You can keep the harmonica… so long as you give it frequent practice.”

He still doesn’t quite get it, but Grimnir can tell from Shiva’s resigned tone that whatever sin he happened to commit has been forgiven. He chirps - an expression learned from the dolphins - in cordial response.

It seems to succeed in restoring Shiva’s good mood.

“Thank you. That sounds a lot more bearable than the steam whistle mimicry.” - He laughs at the way Grimnir’s lip curls into a pout. - “In fact, if you’re so fond of such a noise, why not learn to actually whistle? Like this.”

Shiva’s demonstration has hardly gone on for more than five seconds before he is once again tackled to the ground by an infinitely curious siren. Having learned his lesson, his hand secures both slender fingers before they can begin prying at his lips.

“No, you don’t. Stay put, if you want to learn how.”

It is Shiva’s turn to finger at Grimnir’s face. By some miracle, the latter manages to sit still for long enough that his facial muscles can be moulded into somewhat whistle-enabling positions: cheeks pulled in and lips forming an ‘o’. 

“Good. Now blow gently.”

Grimnir complies. Bubbles spill from his lips instead of whistles.


	4. Chapter 4

His soup can rolls off the mound of rusted metal. 

Grimnir’s tail flicks in frustration. That was the fourth time he tried to balance it on his biggest mountain of treasures. It _has_ to be on top. It is his most prized possession, after all. No land dweller has actively gifted him anything else before. He knows within it is a delicious liquid meant to be consumed, but he would much rather keep the whole thing safe.

For the fifth time, he tries. The whole pile will keep the can elevated from the water which, he is aware despite not completely understanding, makes a lot of land dweller objects erode. It teeters precariously for a few seconds, but eventually stays put. 

Grimnir’s held-back breath exiting him in relief causes it to tumble again. Fed up, his tail whips up a foamy flurry of salt water. 

_Stupid, heavy, cylindrical thing._

As he is about to venture a sixth attempt, the water ferries familiar whistling to his ears. 

Just like that, all of his grievances vanish as footprints in the sand. Grimnir tucks his can away in a small sand dune near the pile, then dives back into the water, heading out of the cavern. 

He recognises Shiva on the shore from way below, his permanent scowl contorted into a caricature of itself by inches of quivering water. Voiceless giggles leave Grimnir in a swarm of bubbles. 

Making a bombastic show of breaking the water’s surface, the siren emits his usual high-pitched screech of a greeting. As usual, it nearly sends his land dwelling friend toppling. Shiva will never grow used to the auditory assault.

“Yes, I’m happy to see you, too.” - He massages an eardrum as Grimnir swims in circles.

Taking into account Shiva’s feedback, Grimnir cheerfully chirps his response in the tongue of dolphins. 

“Well, someone’s had their breakfast.” - Shiva chuckles. - “Guess this means I won’t have to feed you, for once.”

The grinning siren nods his head with vigour.

Shiva blinks, dumbfounded.

“...Wait, really? You don’t want me to feed you today?”

Five more too many nods. Grimnir has plans, and those plans do not include being fed various canned foods, for once.

“...Oh, alright. Well, but I brought us another picnic and everything.”

Grimnir rolls his eyes, which seems to amuse Shiva. He’s in no mood to entertain, however. Gesturing at his own opened mouth, then to himself and then Shiva, Grimnir’s tail fin flips impatient little crests of bubbles into the water behind him.

“You’re going to feed… me.”

A hard nod.

“How…” - Shiva squints, his eyes following the wild theatrics performed by Grimnir’s upper half. - “Just follow you?”

Grimnir reaffirms his point with a short dive. His silvery head of hair peeks back out of the water, eyes beckoning. Shiva had better get in himself.

“...Oh no. I am not in the appropriate attire for swimmi-”

A great splash cuts off Shiva. The very next second, he stands drenched from head to toe. Getting his clothes wet is no longer a concern. Grimnir even looks proud of the fact that he has so quickly bulldozed over the problem. 

“You…” - The crease between his brows deepening, Shiva pulls his soaked hair back into a limp ponytail. - “You little rascal!”

He makes a dive for Grimnir, who gleefully, effortlessly, swims out of his grasp.

\---

Their “chase” was short, more of Shiva allowing himself to be led towards an unspecified destination. Grimnir, in spite of the fugitive act, would pause and turn around to make sure he was still followed, or wait for Shiva to rise and take his intermittent gulp of air. The consideration made Shiva feel safe, even thankful, at the time. 

Now that he is in Grimnir’s secret base - a small pocket of air and reasonably dry ground etched into the cliffs with a submerged entrance - Shiva thinks he ought to have thought twice before following a cryptid straight into its den. At the very least, the place isn’t lined with human skulls. Shells and branches of dead coral are placed deliberately along the water-licked rocks. Broken household objects - gramophones, receivers, clocks, trinkets, faded fragments of china - lay in heaps. Books (whose rotting pages no longer contain any decipherable text, he finds flipping through one) line the cave’s walls along with relatively intact pieces of pottery. The largest pile of rusted pipes, scrap metal and discarded cutlery leans against the very middle of the back wall - the farthest spot away from the water, like a grotesque throne. At its feet, a whole soup can sits half-hazardly buried. From the peeling label, Shiva recognises it to be the same one he gave Grimnir during their last meeting.

A needlessly big splash announces Grimnir’s return. Turning towards the siren, Shiva is first met with the gigantic mackerel held between his jaws. Blissfully, Grimnir pulls himself onto shore and drops the still flopping creature at Shiva’s feet, eyes glistening with expectation. 

“...Thank you. How do I put this…” - Shiva sighs, wiping the salt water spray from his mouth. - “I don’t eat this.”

Grimnir’s jaw drops open, scandalised. But before Shiva can further object, he dives back into the waters. Moments later, he emerges with a huge squid wriggling between his teeth which he proudly presents to Shiva in the same manner.

“Look, the problem is not preferences, but rather I cannot eat raw seafood like this.”

The revelation prompts a high-pitched whistle, which Shiva takes as an expression of shock. Grimnir’s fin-tipped, triangular ears droop in disappointment. Glumly, he pulls himself completely onto the shore and lays down, splayed out next to his writhing catch. It makes his companion feel guilty just watching. 

“I do appreciate the sentiment. It’s just that…”

The corner of Shiva’s eye catches sight of what looks like dry driftwood. Indeed, broken planks and dried plant matter, likely carried in by rising tides, lay in the far corners of the cave. He promptly goes to fetch some for a tinder nest.

Grimnir is on the verge of falling asleep when an orange glow bleeds into the back of his eyelids. Springing upright, he almost shrieks at the radiant pile of luminance having suddenly manifested. Shiva has to shield the small fire from the splatter when Grimnir plunges back into the water to hide himself. 

“There’s no need to fear.” - His body quivering with laughter, Shiva retrieves the squid and mackerel from the shore. - “Come, now. This is but the same thing that makes those treats we often enjoy so delectable.”

But Grimnir is still dubious. His entire body remains submerged. Wary but nonetheless curious eyes stay just above the surface, watching Shiva impale his catch on a harpoon he has found. The cooked food’s sizzling and aroma eventually lures him back up. Saliva dripping out of Grimnir’s mouth is wiped off by Shiva’s still damp handkerchief. The latter faintly grumbles about the task’s difficulty, as the siren keeps trying to duck behind his back.

The formless mass of light gives off heat. Grimnir has never been in such close proximity to anything that generates this much heat before. Perhaps the sun. He can’t tell just how far the sun really is from the sea he calls home, but this light orb bears strikingly similarity to it: the golden radiance cast feels as warm as sunbeams grazing his cheeks, sweltering if he basks in it for too long. Comforting, nurturing, with a hint of danger, almost like his bipedal friend…

“Careful. You don’t want to touch them with your bare hands yet.”

Shiva moves the skewer of seafood away, having erroneously assumed Grimnir is reaching for it. The siren snaps back to his senses, which comes with the extinguishing of his compulsion to attempt touching the fire. He lets out an apologetic chirp that earns him a pat on the head.

Roasted mackerel tastes heavenly, Grimnir finds. The fire must have cast some palate-enhancing magic over it. It somehow tastes fishier than any raw fish he has eaten, without the stink of blood. 

Shiva takes his time with the squid, watching Grimnir happily attack the mackerel. It’s almost therapeutic. The siren’s joy is so infectious that it seeps into and lighten his heart from mere observation. Neither of them remembers that the entire meal was supposed to be Grimnir’s gift to Shiva.

Consuming warm food reminds Shiva of the unopened soup can.

“Do you have no plans to eat that? I thought you enjoyed soup.” - He motions at the half-buried cylinder.

Grimnir shakes his head, both cheeks still stuffed round with fish. He momentarily sets the mackerel down to retrieve the soup can. As if to make a point, he tries to balance it on his largest treasure pile again. To his disappointment and expectation, it rolls off as it always did. Shiva chortles.

“It’s too heavy and unbalanced. You can’t-”

Just then, he sees it: the unmistakable graven top cover of his harmonica amidst the rusting metal.

Grimnir feels a knot in his throat when Shiva gets up and heads towards the pile. His hands claw at air, trying in vain to stop the man. 

The top cover is just that - a thin plate of metal, unattached to anything else. The rest of the harmonica is nowhere to be found. Shiva has an inkling that they _can_ be found, if he digs through the enormous heap of junk and sift through its individual parts. But the fact remains that the siren has basically destroyed the instrument.

“Hey…”

Grimnir has disappeared, presumably hiding underwater again, the sneaky little vandal.

Shiva slumps against the cave’s back wall, face buried into one hand. He really ought to have known better. What good could he possibly expect to come out of befriending an insolent fish? Thanks to his thoughtlessness, the only relic linking him to the town of his childhood, the bygone but only place he has ever felt like he knows, is gone. 

Something tugs on his hair. He gazes up to find Grimnir’s hand on the other end of his long ponytail. The siren looks downtrodden, guilty beyond measure, genuinely repentant for his crime. Shiva opens his mouth, ready to admonish, but something hard and smooth is pushed into his palm.

It is a harmonica made out of fragments of seashells. The curious Grimnir has taken his old harmonica apart so he could study it. This clumsily constructed replica is the fruits of that study.

“...This is your apology?”

Grimnir nods slowly but decisively. As if he fears Shiva would start yelling at him immediately, his fingers wrap those of the man around the instrument before bringing it to his mouth. He wants him to try playing it.

Mildly amused by the siren’s childish behaviour, Shiva decides to humour him. 

The instrument’s tone is less bright than that of a normal harmonica, sounding somewhat closer to an oboe. It’s also not very well-tuned, the notes slightly sharper than they should be but still form a recognisable scale. 

After a dormant period that felt like years, Shiva composes. A simple, melancholic tune which, as if prompted by instinct, Grimnir begins to emulate. The melody’s repetitive nature allows Shiva to witness first hand Grimnir’s ‘learning’ process, how he begins replicating new sounds from his environment. It starts with a similar sound he already knows, which slowly, gradually, morphs into the new timbre. 

Grimnir “sings” in the dreadful steam whistle tone at first, but after the chorus’ third repetition, he begins reproducing the shell harmonica’s tone. So taken he is with the ‘lesson’, he never realises when Shiva has stopped playing. The siren keeps singing all on his own for three or four more verses, until he finally grows acutely aware of the man’s watchful eye and stops, blushing from ear to ear. To his greater embarrassment, Shiva claps.

“That was good. Congratulations on your first sound.”

_My first sound?_ Grimnir blinks, wholly confused.

“Yes. You made the instrument, did you not? So the sound it makes is already yours to begin with. And I made that song just for you. Everything is yours. That’s completely different from some audio sample you borrowed from your environment.”

_My first sound._

The realisation sinks in with time. Once it does, a smile pulls at Grimnir’s lips once more. It also pumps him with enough courage to meet Shiva’s gaze again.

_Thank you_. He dolphin-chirps.

“Ah, ah. Use your sound.”

Grimnir proudly belts out a note of the shell harmonica. 

Shiva laughs heartily. But as suddenly as his mirth has come, his face once again regains its austerity.

“I hope you don’t assume this means I’ve totally forgiven you.”

Startled, Grimnir is about to escape again, but Shiva has blocked his path back into the water this time.

“Stay there.”

Right in front of the siren’s bewildered eyes, Shiva grabs the soup can and activates it. Even Grimnir’s ability to instantly tear up could not save him this time. Fishing an intact spoon out of the metal pile, Shiva uses it to feed Grimnir the can’s heated contents.

Grimnir eats through tears. It tastes like guilt. But he also knows this is just punishment for his misdeed. He did destroy an important treasure of Shiva, after all. Having his own treasure destroyed in return is simply justice.

Meanwhile, Shiva tries his darndest not to laugh.

“You know. You’ve taught me something today as well.” - He shoves the final spoonful of soup into Grimnir’s mouth. - “The things you value may change radically yet superficially. In the end, its essence remains the same. It is still the thing to which you have always devoted your affection.”

Standing up, Shiva flattens the empty can with a hard stomp of his foot. He pays Grimnir’s open mouth no heed as he places the flat disk of metal back on top of the treasure pile. 

It stays still for good this time.


End file.
